


Wingsongs for the Wicked

by thealmightyh



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel & Demon Interactions, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angel/Demon Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Slow Build, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-06-03 10:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19462018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealmightyh/pseuds/thealmightyh
Summary: Description: Before the birth of the antichrist, Heaven makes a deal; if Aziraphale falls, Crowley rises. But, when Armageddon ends on a little airfield outside of Tadfield, immunity from Hell cannot protect against the holy wrath of God’s forsaken angels.Excerpt: “See, the end is nigh.” Gabriel clapped an arm over Crowley’s shoulders. “And as much as I’d like to see you melted into a bubbling pile, we’ve just gotten confirmation that in the next decade your lot will be welcoming the antichrist. Unfortunately, there are some... complications.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **I'm on tumblr now...[HERE](https://thealmightyh.tumblr.com/)**
> 
> Written (poorly) in the styles of masters Neil Gaiman and the late Terry Pratchett; may he spend the rest of his immortal days poolside and pestering God for spoilers. Crowley is, and always will be, the bendy bony breakfast toast of my dreams.

**Wingsong for the Wicked**

And lo, the Metatron spoke:

‘And upon your belly thou shalt crawl for all unworthy days,

Low as the lowest serpents; just punishment for thine wiles.

Upon your wretched countenance: mark, the yellow-eyed beast.

Upon your untruthful tongue: mark, the fork of thine devils,

Upon your skin: mark, the silver scales of unholy treachery.

You have been sentenced and so you will be an angel judged.’

At least, that’s what the Official Record stated. In actuality, the Metatron had said: ‘Good riddance, nosy bugger’ and several burly angels had pushed the to-be demon Crowley off of the (metaphorical) cloud. Asked about it centuries later Crowley would describe it as a bit of an _I-quit-you’re-fired_ scenario, but that wasn’t the entire truth. He hadn’t meant to fall, he just had questions. As was, he was bound by the Rules. He could slither on in silence, or walk the earth in mortal frame, but he could never hide the snake because the snake was in the name.


	2. Chapter 2

There were a number of differences between angels and demons, and also between demons and other demons, and again between angels and demons and mortals. Angels didn’t have birthdays or belly buttons, for example, but once for a lark in 1928 Crowley had thrown a birthday party for two that had included a fat slab of chocolate cake and a stupid paper hat.

The angel Aziraphale had been so tickled that Crowley had sent him a birthday card the following year on the same date, and every single year after that. He did his best to pick the ones with rude pictures; last year’s card had a priest and a poke-hole for your finger that ended up somewhere particularly naughty on the following page. Aziraphale’s officially unofficial birthday was August 5th at precisely 3:49pm. Fittingly, it was also on a Sunday. 

If pressed about either the cake or the cards, Crowley would have denied any and all knowledge of both, and also of the beige-handled ladies hatbox on the bottom left shelf of the writing desk where Aziraphale had kept all seventy-four and counting. He would further deny that he was aware of where the rudest bunch were kept, which was definitely not in a pink envelope with ‘my favourites’ written on it in a drunk angel’s effeminate handwriting.

But, snakes lie and so did Crowley. Along that same vein, if anyone had dared suggest that he were utterly, irrevocably, and frankly inconveniently in love with an angel, he would have smote them. Although, demons can’t technically perform smitery, so Crowley would have given them a very itchy itch deep in the bum just before they went to church, instead.

But, factually, Crowley _was_ in love with Aziraphale.

This was problematic for several reasons beginning with heaven and ending with hell, neverminding all the wiggly emotional bits in between. Lucky for Crowley, the angel Aziraphale—posh, pudgy, and dimmer than a two-watt bulb when it came to romance—had no idea, and Crowley intended to keep it that way for the rest of his natural life, which was, in a word, eternity. This was not working out well for him.

* * *

Aziraphale was a creature of habit. He had had rather a long time to form them, after all. After opening his bookshop in London’s West End, things that had been open when he arrived seemed, almost miraculously, to stay open. Berry Bros. & Rudd, for example, was Britain’s oldest purveyor of fine wine and spirits. They remained open because Aziraphale expected them to be there. This was also true of Paxton & Whitfield (cheese), Fortnum & Mason (tea), Henry Poole & Co (the suit Aziraphale had bought once in 1809 but like so much he imagined it retailored now and again) and finally, W Martyn.

Aziraphale had an interesting relationship with W Martyn. For one, they always had exactly what he wanted, even if they didn’t stock it. He would smile kindly at the clerk and say, “If you could be so kind as to check in the back, dear.” And, after checking in the back, the stock boy—or girl, as was the style of the late 20th century—would return, confused, with exactly what he wanted. On this particular morning, Aziraphale wanted fresh figs.

Aziraphale was no more partial to figs than to any other fruit, but the demon Crowley had left a clandestine note on his front door in a loopy script that said ‘7:00 pm, tonight - I’ll bring the wine’. Crowley liked figs. He had said so, in… AD 27, or was it 29? Jesus was very popular, as were figs, and Crowley had said, quote, ‘hmm, not bad’ while eating one.

For Crowley, that was very high praise. He only ate a proper large meal every few months, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts. It was downright snakish. Fitting, he supposed.

“Mr. Fell…?” A baffled-looking clerk was holding out his purchase.

“Oh, you did have some in the back. How lovely!” Aziraphale beamed. He paid in modern pounds, tipped a twopence with a resale value in the four digits, and left humming.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley and Aziraphale were arguing in Aziraphale’s dusty bookshop.

That wasn’t unusual after a tad less six-thousand years of being dutiful enemies. However, over time, as often does between two incompatible creatures, the arguments had shifted and softened and become tender at the seams. They argued about fine wine, music, and where to find the best cheese plates in London. One might have called it romance, that is, provided they wanted a very itchy itch deep in the bum just before they went to church.

“Of course they’re not the same,” Crowley drained the glass of wine he was drinking and poured himself another. “That was two-thousand years ago, and those trees were all… biblical. Blessed is the fruit of thy fig tree, pitted be the dates of your loin and all that.”

“Pitted be the dates of your…” Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not at all how that story went.”

“You can’t spend the rest of your immortality pissing on about vintage fruit. There’s nothing wrong with these.” Crowley gestured to the laden plate between them.

“They’re not as sweet.” What he meant was: I wanted you to like them.

“Put some honey on them, then.”

“The honey isn’t the same, either,” Aziraphale complained.

Crowley looked skyward and his tongue flicked irritably. “Ssssometimes you’re jussssst—ah, bugger.” That was the downside to drinking, the letter S tended to get slippery on a forked tongue; like tripping from Queen’s proper to Cockney in the middle of a sentence.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Aziraphale reassured him unnecessarily since it didn’t bother Crowley either. “It’s been centuries. I’m well aware of your lesser tendencies.”

“My lesser tendencies,” Crowley said flatly; _now_ it bothered him.

“Oh! No, no,” Aziraphale backpedaled. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“That’s exactly what you meant.”

“Yes, but… not in that way.”

“You know what, Aziraphale?” Crowley ate another fig to spite him. “For someone with such a holy-blessed stick of judgement shoved up his fat arse you’re always such a—”

“I meant the snake business, not you!”

“I am the ‘snake business’ forever and ever, until unholy Armageddon, achoo.”

Aziraphale sighed and waited for the front door to slam—always hard enough to make the panes rattle, but never hard enough to break the glass—but Crowley didn’t leave. He would later discover after the third absolutely scandalized housewife left his bookshop in an affronted puff that Crowley had, at that exact moment, changed all of the dust covers in Aziraphale’s biblical fiction section to a rather lewd collection of intimate self-portraits.

“You’re stupid,” said Crowley.

“And you’re crass,” said Aziraphale. “More wine?”

“I’ll get another bottle.” He got four if anyone was counting.

Several hours later: “Crowley, take off those ridiculous… silly…” Aziraphale snapped his fingers until the word came to him, “—sunglasses. It’s nighttime.”

“No.”

“We’re indoors!”

“Let it alone, Aziraphale.”

Crowley didn’t mind his eyes, in fact, he rather liked them. In the early days, he didn’t have to think much on it, very few mirrors, but time wore on, glass was invented, and everything became reflective and shiny. Prior to he had spent several centuries popping up in dark alleys at leering people, which was great fun until the advent of the contact lens industry.

What he did hate, however, was bright lights, unwanted mortal attention and also, that other little thing he had been refusing to acknowledge for the last thousand years; that he and Aziraphale were cut from very different cloth, a fact that, with some effort, he could forget.

“I think they’re quite… very—” Aziraphale struggled “—yellow.”

“Oh please for the love of all, stop talking you’re embarrassing yourself,” Crowley sighed. But, he took off his sunglasses and set them aside. “It’s not a vanity. It’s just an—”

“Insecurity.”

“Yes.” Crowley’s ears caught up with him, “No!”

“Phobia?”

“Stop.”

“Atypical noses—knee-hoses— _neurosis_ ,” Aziraphale chortled, very red in the face. Crowley gave him a look that would have curdled even the freshest dairy.

“You’re drunk, angel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale beamed. “As a skunk.”

“Hmmm.”

“You’ve still not forgiven me,” Aziraphale said. “For the… snake business, business”

Crowley had, two hours and two-hundred dust covers ago. “Demons hold grudges.”

“Well, I wish you wouldn’t!” A long pause, “They _are_ very yellow.”

“You’re cut off.”

“It never bothered you, but now we’re—” Aziraphale almost said ‘friends’, but he was an angel, and angels didn’t have demons for friends “—drinking acquaintances, and…”

“I took them off, will you settle down. Have some cheese.” Crowley was suddenly very uncomfortable with how close to home Aziraphale had managed to hit; impressive, since normally he wouldn’t have been able to hit the broad side of a barn with a bulldozer.

“It’s okay, I’ll keep your secret.”

A chasmic pit opened up in Crowley’s gut. “My secret.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “I figured it out.”

“You did.”

“Mmhmm.” He was positively giddy, and Crowley was two-thirds his way through a summons that would drag a besotted demon back down to the utter bowels of hell. “Cards!”

Crowley blinked. Or would have, if he could blink. “Cards.”

“Cards, you wily serpent— _oops, can’t say snake_ —I didn’t say snake.” Aziraphale nodded as if that settled what he did and didn’t say. “I have a mirror in the corner of my shop to prevent thievery, and you can see my cards reflect in your glasses. Caught!”

Swing and a miss, angel. Missed the barn. Missed the farm. Missed the universe they were all parked in. “You caught me red-handed, Aziraphale. I’m rubbish at Acey Deucy.”


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley left the bookshop at around 6:45 am. He sobered up quietly and replaced the bottles he’d been responsible for in the usual place. He’d parked his car four streets over and disguised it as a postbox for no other reason than he liked reading other people’s mail which tended to collect in his passenger seat. Now and again if he was doing a hush-hush miracle on Aziraphale’s behalf he’d pick four or five electric bills that had gone red and pay them.

Whistling a melodic tune that felt a little chilly in the bones Crowley jaywalked in front of a grumpy balding old man who looked like he liked people who followed the rules and then someone or something hit him very hard over the head with what felt like a large lead pipe.

* * *

“Did the memo say to hit him?” Whined an unknown, nasally voice as Crowley’s vision faded from black to the blank, endless white of heaven. His eyes weren’t built for brightness, he was blind, bound, and at someone else’s mercy. “I don’t think the memo said to hit him.”

“Well, the memo didn’t say not to hit him, now did it?” He knew _that_ voice.

“Gabriel.” Crowley rattled his chains. “Holy gold, nice touch.”

“Shut-up demon," said the archangel Gabriel. “Sandalphon, strike this from the record.” Crowley braced himself, but Gabriel didn’t hit him. “And see yourself out.”

“But—”

“Now.”

In the eight-and-a-half seconds it took Sandalphon to waddle away, Crowley took a last personal moment to decide what he’d miss most before being immolated by holy water. He thought it would be a longer list, but all that came to mind was one thing: Aziraphale, on his couch, tucked under a pink wool afghan. Without warning or explanation, Gabriel banished his chains.

“About that…” Gabriel dimmed the immediate light, and cupped a hand to his mouth to mime a whisper. “He’s a bit of… what are you cool kids calling it? A narky, nercer…? A narc, that’s it.” Gabriel snapped his fingers, smiling a little too widely for Crowley’s comfort as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. “You know, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot here.”

“You kidnapped me.”

“But did you deserve it?” Gabriel asked in a tone very much like a disappointed father holding a belt would say ‘this is going to hurt you a lot more than it’s going to hurt me’.

“Probably.” Crowley replied automatically, rubbing the burn marks on his wrists. Holy gold wasn’t deadly to a demon, but that’s because it was designed to keep them very uncomfortable for a very long time instead. “I don’t suppose ‘let me go’ is on the table?”

“Oh, it is. I have a very special job for you, Crowley. Well, Heaven has a very special job for you, and I suspect it aligns very closely with the job you’re already on, am I right? A little tempty-tempty with a certain…” Gabriel grimaced in disgust, “Fleshy annoying book dealer? I mean, let’s be pals—buddies— _bros_ . Little hidey-ho the sausage and he’s one of yours, isn’t he? I mean, we’re not stupid up here. We keep tabs on our own. Understand?” Of the millions of things that Crowley had expected to come next, _that_ was not one of them.

“See, the end is nigh.” Gabriel clapped an arm over Crowley’s shoulders. “And as much as I’d like to see you melted into a bubbling pile, we’ve just gotten confirmation that in the next decade your lot will be welcoming the antichrist. Unfortunately, there are some—” he made a vague gesture “—complications.”

“Complications.” Crowley repeated.

“A little prophecy, stupid, nothing, _tiny_ .” Gabriel said. “But it says that Aziraphale— _the angel_ —can stop the great war. Now, see, _we_ can’t kill him because he’s not technically done anything wrong; the Almighty, very techy about the wrongdoing and you know, all that.”

“Right.” 

“But you—” Gabriel hugged his shoulders a little tighter “—you can make this all go away for us, as long as you make sure that you follow through on your little mission.”

“Yes, right. My mission.” Crowley, who had begun carefully probing the edges of the current celestial plane to see if there were any rifts that he could slither through was coming to the dark realization that he couldn’t leave until permitted. “Very hellish, my mission.”

“We know.” Gabriel released him, “Imagine having to… Well, I suppose you're used to wading around in filth but, still. I like you, Crowley. Well dressed. You can always judge a man—hah hah, little mortal pun, you’re a demon—by the cut of his trousers.” He snapped his fingers for the third time and piece of pristine white legal paper appeared. “So I got you this.”

“And that is?” Crowley imagined punching him very, very hard.

“This is freedom, my slippery friend. Full and unconditional retractment.” Gabriel waited for Crowley’s gasp of shock and awe and when it was not forthcoming: “Of your eternal damnation?”

“Run that whole retractment bit by me again.” Crowley tried picking at frayed edges of wherever Sandalphon had disappeared too, with no luck. Just more endless Heaven.

“You fix our little problem between now and Armageddon, and your punishment ends.” Gabriel stroked the edges of the paper, “If Aziraphale falls, you rise. No strings attached.”

Crowley looked up sharply, and then he snorted. Every demon spent their first three-hundred years begging for home. “You can’t unfall an angel. Once it’s done it’s done.”

“Oh, you can.” Gabriel smile became a bright white wide grin that burned behind Crowley’s eyes. “If you know their name.” 


	5. Chapter 5

The archangel Zadkiel was haloed by a mane of red curl crowned in fig blossom. Clothed in unblemished linen his skin glowed in the light and glory of God; upon his feet, sandals of blessed amethyst and holy gold. In his right hand no weapon and in his left no shield, for at his command was the violet flame of Heaven.

And so it was written: Zadkiel gazed down at the Garden of Eden—which had been recreated in very accurate 1/16th scale for demonstrative purposes—and said: “Not very subtle of the Almighty, though. Fruit tree in the middle of a garden with a ‘don't touch’ sign.”

* * *

Abraham was a god-fearing man. God had apparently spent a lot of time making sure he was good and afraid. To what purpose was a little open-ended, but thus far it appeared the purpose was to make ‘how high?’ Abraham's official response to the command ‘jump’. Abraham's son Isaac was also god-fearing, because if he wasn't, he’d get the strap.

For this reason, when Abraham said to Isaac ‘get some wood, we’re heading on up to Moriah for a holy sacrifice’ Isaac said ‘okay, dad’ and got the wood. Isaac subsequently spent the breadth of the trip annoying his father by asking ‘so, what are we burning?’ until Abraham clapped him upside the head and said ‘I told you, I’ll tell you when we get there.’ 

And, when they got there, Abraham tied Isaac to a very large boulder. Things looked a little hairy until a rather confused angel showed up with a bloody great sheep and called the whole child sacrifice thing off. Abraham praised God, Isaac became a practical atheist, and neither thought to thank the archangel who had spent several nights in the records room forging alternative endings while muttering ‘you can’t’ as he changed the grand design.

* * *

“Hello, Aziraphale.” Crowley—formerly Crawly—slithered up beside a plump, worried-looking angel whose name tasted familiar on the fork of his tongue.

“Crawly,” came the curt reply. 

“So, giving the mortals a flaming sword. How _did_ that work out for you?” Crowley goaded, and an embarrassed flush crawled across Aziraphale’s round cheeks.

“The Almighty has never actually mentioned it again.” 

“Probably a good thing,” Crowley said, staring at a very large boat in the middle of the desert. “What's all this about?” He asked. “Build a big boat and fill it with a travelling zoo?”

“From what I hear, God's a bit tetchy,” Aziraphale said in the conspiratory tone of someone spreading a rumour. “Wiping out the human race. Big storm.”

Crowley blanched. “All of them?”

“Just the locals.” Aziraphale corrected as if that made it better. “I don't believe the Almighty's upset with the Chinese. Or the Native Americans. Or the Australians.”

“Yet.”

Aziraphale ignored him. “And God's not actually going to wipe out all the locals. I mean, Noah, up there, his family, and his sons, their wives, they're all going to be fine.”

“But they're drowning everybody else?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and nodded. 

Crowley was horrified. “Not the kids? You can't kill kids.”

“Mm-hmm,” Aziraphale said with still-buttoned lips. He was an angel! He wasn’t allowed to question the Great Plan. But privately, quietly, deep deep down, this time…

“Well,” said Crowley. “That's more the kind of thing you'd expect my lot to do.”

* * *

“But God didn’t ask for you to kill all the unborn directly,” Zadkiel paused before adding, “Technically speaking. You know, in the face-to-face sense of actual asking.”

“We got a memo,” replied the angel Sandalphon. “It was very specific.”

“Right,” said Zadkiel. “But who writes the memos?”

“God.”

“And we’re sure about that?”

“Are you questioning the Almighty again, Zadkiel? Rad-Zad, Zaddio,” Gabriel appeared miraculously much to Sandalphon's relief. “Always on the wild side, eh champ? Pow-pow.” He faked a left-right jab to Zadkiel’s ribs and ruffled his holy curls, and then his expression darkened. “We don’t question God, because God is always right. Always.”

"Right." Replied Zadkiel. He had no doubts about God’s rightness, but he was starting the question the nature of an angel's.

* * *

Lucifer was a wanker. Zadkiel liked him. He liked that he was vain, and that he was covetous, and that he interrupted board meetings to ask inconvenient questions like “Why?”

In Zadkiel’s opinion, the Great Plan seemed a little too… planned.

There were details, of course. Housed in rooms wider than eternities, memo after memo after memo. All collected they spanned the entire history of mankind to come, a morbid highlight reel of punishing people for being people, or for being the wrong kind of people, or for being the right kind of people, and inexplicably, for eating shrimp. And it all started with paradise. Some poor sod stationed down in the Principalities was going to get a big ol’ flaming sword and orders to guard the gates of Eden with their immortal life, meanwhile, every archangel in the sky knew that the whole purpose was for them to fail. That was another problem. For God’s _other_ angels it was all about peace, love, and goodwill, but for an archangel? Mankind was a scourge to be planted, pruned, and with divine luck, annihilated. 

* * *

Crowley hit the tarmac at the center of Carlisle and Dean with a dull wet thump that would have separated lungs from liver by way of a parked lorry had he been knitted together by conventional effort. He crawled on his knees, gasping. His first thought was Aziraphale, his second was that gasping was stupid because demons didn’t need to breathe, and his third was interrupted because the smell of sulfur and smoke bled around him like a pudding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those not familiar, the event from the story is called the Binding of Isaac. TLDR; Abraham is commanded to sacrifice his son Isaac to God. He loads Isaac up with a shitload of firewood and they start climbing. Isaac isn't the brightest of the progeny so he's like: right, but _what_ are we burning 'cause we didn't bring anything?? Abraham is all like "God will provide" in the most cryptic possible way until they get to the top... and then he ties his son to a great big f*cking rock and is about to make with the stabby stabby but then an angel shows up in the nick of time with a fattened ram and is like JUST KIDDING! Anyway, this is why religion is problematic and you shouldn't go hiking. Be gay. Do crimes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting in the evening instead of the morning. I have one of those gross career things they used to threaten me with in my 20s and they sent me to another province.
> 
>  **NOTE:** Right, so... Beezlebub. There's some friction in the fandom regarding the whole he/she/ze pronoun thing and in my opinion Beezlebub is male-presenting therefore I used male pronouns. I'm not saying I'll die on this hill but I (personally) think Beezy presents transmasc. My head, my fic, my canon.

Aziraphale woke with an ugly, throbbing headache. The problem with the angelic ability to sober oneself was that if you didn’t, you were left with the holy wrath of all hangovers the following morning. Dragging himself to a mostly upright position Aziraphale became immediately aware of three things: that Crowley had left, that he had tidied before leaving, and that he had removed Aziraphale's footwear before tucking him into bed.

Finding both Oxfords and socks arranged under the sofa with care, Aziraphale's heart ached; blasphemous traitor that is was. After all these years and despite what Crowley was, there was a secret softness in him that always managed to leak out the seams. Standing up and turning a little too left a little too fast, Aziraphal’s brain clanged around his skull like lightning; fitting punishment for a silly old fool, he supposed. The facts were thus: Crowley was a demon. He could no more be cured of this state of nature than Aziraphale could be of his, so dwelling on how soft his seams or how tender his edges was the definition of wasted wishes.

Besides, Crowley was debauchery on wheels and Aziraphale was peas on toast. By cosmic happenstance, they both rather liked this of one another, but it didn't  _ mean _ anything.

* * *

Crowley arrived in hell on his belly, curved in on himself and desperately trying to shake off the sudden motion sickness that comes from hurtling earthside at four-hundred-and-fifty-eight miles per metaphysical second and then doing the exact same thing in reverse. Being dragged down to hell via his spleen had now taken second place on his list of most-loathsome realities of the day, but only by a very narrow margin.

“Beelzebub,” Crowley’s voice cracked. “What an unpleasant surprise.”

“Silenczzze,” snapped the demon lord Beezlebub, a cloud of flies buzzing irritably around his purulent head. “Demon Crowley, we have received word from our contact upstairs that you were seen fraternizzzzzing with the archangel Gabriel in private audience.”

At this, Crowley staggered upright by sheer force of ignorance to both physics and causality, brushing the hellfire from his knees. He conjured a pair of dark glasses and made up his mind to keep talking is because he knew exactly what would happen if he didn’t. Demons didn't fraternize with angels, because the ones that had tried it were currently spackled into the walls, floor, and ceiling. Crowley needed a lie—a good lie—a good, fast lie.

“You don’t honestly think that Michael is the only archangel that has considered playing for the winning team, do you?” Crowley didn't cringe, but he wanted to. Of all the lies he could have lied he had to shoot for the most improbable, unlikely—

Beezlebub frowned, suspicion etched into his swarming forehead. “Explain.”

Crowley, who was never sure if it was the maggots or the flies, had always had the uncomfortable feeling that Beezlebub would know bullshit when smelled it, but Hell hadn’t told him about the antichrist, he couldn’t tell Hell about Aziraphale, and the only thing standing between Crowley and a very deep pit of sulphur was bafflement, bullshit, or both.

He chose both.

“What’s to explain?” he shrugged. “An archangel says ‘hey, demon, I’ve got questions’ and I say 'lucky day, I've got answers'. Don’t get me wrong, loving what Michael has brought to the table—” Crowley hated the archangel Michael and everything he brought to the table “—but two beats one; so I arranged a little tête-à-tête, sowed the seed.”

“Ssszzzzzo you were tempting the archangel, Gabriel?” Beelzebub asked, feeling his idea out in slow syllables as Crowley swallowed rising nausea. If the lie didn't take, he'd be in the deepest, darkest, most inescapable kind of sh— “That’szz… commendable.”

Commendable. He could work with that. Crowley had a great many commendations for things he hadn’t done, hadn’t thought of doing, and couldn’t have done it he tried. He had a penchant for trying his luck because luck was often all he had left to try. “Well, you wouldn’t catch some bugger like Ligur pulling up in Heaven on personal invitation.”

“I supposzzzze not,” said the demon lord Beezlebub.

* * *

Aziraphale was puttering around what passed for his kitchenette—vintage toaster, kettle, and cutting board—steeping a weak Earl Grey and feeling sorry for himself. He considered opening the bookshop for long enough to say he had done so before closing it again, but that would have left him alone with his thoughts. Instead, he remained open to punish himself, selling a misprinted-edition of George Orwell's collected works to a lanky, spotted youth wearing eight different shades of faded black and a studded dog collar. Crowley would have been delighted; if there was anything that irritated him more than humans shopping for satanism in the pet accessories department it was pigs in metaphoric pants.

Truthfully, this was the only reason Aziraphale had sold it.

Aziraphale knew that Crowley would, if pressed, insist with a snarl that he didn’t read and how dare anyone suggest that he did, would, or could, but Aziraphale also kept an impeccable personal inventory and therefore knew exactly how many of his books had been stolen, how many had been returned, and that by official record, Crowley had in his possession:  _ War of the Worlds, Nineteen Eighty-Four, A Clockwork Orange, _ and inexplicably,  _ Little Women. _

If Aziraphale happened to restock his science fiction shelves on a semi-occasional basis for no discernable reason considering he had an avowed dislike for the entire genre, he was merely taking his responsibility as a merchant very seriously. Diverse stock and the like.

* * *

“Well?” Gabriel was standing in the shadow of a parking garage, face obscured by the night. “Did you give him a ‘Dark Summons’ or whatever you’re calling it,” he asked, making quotation marks with his fingers. “We need some personal security, here.”

“The demon Crowley hassszzz been dealt with,” came a buzzing reply.

“But did you order him to do it?”

“No.”

“Threaten him? Little hellfire and damnation?”

“The demon Crowley has been dealt with,” the voice repeated. “We are familiar with his propheczzzy; he has been commended for your temptation. Asszzz for the other angel, he will fall without our orderszzz. If Crowley is commanded, he will resisszzt.”

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, torture him?”

“No.”

“Beezy, baby, work with me here.” Gabriel stepped into the glow of the streetlight and adjusted his lapel. “You want the end, I want the end; the fire, the brimstone, the boiling seas of lava. At the end, no mortals, no heaven, no hell, just endless time. We deserve that.”

* * *

Crowley ascended Hell badly shaken. It took him over an hour on foot to make it back to Soho from where he had breached the surface, but at the risk of being discovered too near Aziraphale’s known location, he knew better than to use a miracle. He found the Bently camouflaged where he’d left it the night before, a mountain of mail overflowing into his seat.

He closed the door, revved the engine and then he swore. “FUCK!” He slammed his palms on the steering wheel and the entire cab shook, “FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.”

He needed a drink. He needed a plan B. He needed Aziraphale.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fantastically late with this because of who I am as a person. We see Crowley fall next chapter... can I get a wahoo?

* * *

There were very few dark corners in heaven as, speaking in a strictly spatial sense, heaven had no corners. Still, private, clandestine conversation had a way of breeding shadowed fringes where people could lurk as nature intended. At present, the archangel Gabriel was lurking. Pressed close to him in secretive whisper was a short, dark-haired angel of slight feature and complexion.

“Azazel, baby, you know what's going to happen to the traitors.”

“I do.”

“You'd really become one of those gross... things?”

“I would,” said Azazel. “For us.”

“But six-thousand years,” Gabriel stroked his cheek, “It's so long.”

“We would be enslaved for longer. The mortals have not yet been made, and yet still we are beholden until the end of time.”

“Everybody has a day job, gorgeous. Or they will. We could—”

“We will be beholden to no one!”

“Well, you know whatever my baby wants my baby gets. But are you sure about the maggots? Seems a little...” Gabriel made a face, “Icky.”

“You've read the prophecies.”

“I know, I know. Eternal damnation, pestilence, viscera. I just don't want anything to ruin that perfect face.”

“It will be temporary.”

“You know,” Gabriel kissed Azazel's neck, “It is a little exciting. I mean, you’re gonna be the big bad Prince of Hell. And once you're on that throne I'm gonna…” Gabriel leaned into Azazal's space, words obscured by his black hair “...right in your highness.”

“Gabriel!”

“Can't help it,” he grabbed Azazel's waist and pulled him flushed. “I’m so tired of sneaking around like this. Subjecting ourselves to this... this—”

“Sublimation.”

"Sublimation!” he snapped his fingers. “Great word, I like that.” Gabriel pressed his lips to Azazel's forehead, “You should use that when you're downstairs. Sounds _very_ official.”

* * *

Aziraphale was an admittedly terrible cook but held a secret affinity for baking.

There had been a lovely American chef by the name of Julia Child who had taught him a thing or two over the years. She was loud and boisterous and much like Aziraphale, quite fond of red wine and things fried in lard. It had taken several decades, but he had, with only a small miracle or two, perfected quite a few of her recipes. Including a rather indulgent walnut layer cake with a--forgive the phrase-- _sinful_ brandy-butter filling.

Despite never bothering to install anything beyond the kitchenette in his living space, there tended to be a conveniently transient fridge, stove, and countertop that replaced his reading room whenever he got the itch to bake. By no small coincidence, this itch tended to need scratching when he was worried or upset. Aziraphale was very upset, but he didn’t know why.

Twice since daybreak, a very old, very confused milkman had delivered four pints of milk and two packages of eggs, unsure of why considering he had retired in 1962.

“I don’t even _like_ Crowley!” Aziraphale said to no one, hand-mixing a bowl of sticky batter until his arms ached. “I mean, surely I tolerate him as a… because he… well, I just—” he was now pouring the mix into two separate pans, scowling at both. “This is ridiculous!”

The batter pans, knowing what was good for them, didn’t answer.

“You--” he pointed a threatening finger “--better rise, or else.” Realizing in an instant exactly who he sounded like and looking horrified at the very thought, he reached for the brandy. Two hours later the bottle was empty and his cakes were burnt to black.

* * *

“Lucifer, hey, quick question—” Zadkiel jogged alongside a tall, arrogant-looking angel “--about the, y’know...” he looked furtively left and then right, checking for spies, and Sandalphon, slippery little bugger that he was, “ _Special interest meeting_.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Lucifer.

“Uh, right, ‘course, sorry, my mistake—” but before he could finish, Lucifer drew him into a tight embrace, mouth hovering against his ear. “Farthest fold of the farthest cosmos, do not let anyone see you, and bring no angel that you do not trust utterly.”

“Praise be to God,” said Zadkiel as he was released.

“Praise be to God,” replied Lucifer with dangerous venom.

* * *

Crowley was pacing in his flat.

Heaven wanted him to--and if he did--not that he would--but if he did… No! Crowley was a demon, not a bloody traitor. Gabriel, on the other hand, was a holy smug bastard but no matter how tempting the offer, if the price was Aziraphale, the price was too high. Crowley’s sins were his own, but what had Aziraphale ever done? Like food a little too much, have a bit of a fetishistic relationship with book bindings, but otherwise, he was pure as the driven snow.

The only viable solution was to tell him everything. But what could he say? ‘Hey, angel, sorry ‘bout your luck but your entire belief system is a farce and by-the-by if you were ever thinking about giving me a decent rogering, err, uh, don’t, unless you’d like a very one-way ticket to permanent inescapable sulphurous damnation.’

Crowley slammed his fist into the nearest of his impeccable modern concrete walls and immediately regretted it. Knuckles smarting he sucked a bleeding one into his mouth and sat down, dejected. There was nothing doing now but to pick up the phone. Hell still hadn't figured those out, thank g-- _someone_.


End file.
